The Other Side
by Emerald Charms
Summary: Voldemort falls prey to his own rebounding death curse in the Battle of Hogwarts and wizarding Britain celebrates. Reborn in the body of Harry Potter, Tom suddenly finds himself fighting on two fronts when Albus Dumbledore isn't the only remaining threat in this new world. After all, there can only be one version of himself, and neither can live while the other survives…
1. Chapter 1

**This is my try on a completely different idea.**

**Not sure whether it's something that sparks an interest, but my attempt at a story about how life for Voldemort would be, if he was reborn as Harry Potter. I know that there are other fanfictions out there with similar topics (maybe even the same), but I have not used any of them as a model for my story! **

**The idea is mine. Sadly, I do not own the characters or the HP universe; those rights belong to the wonderful and amazing J.K. Rowling who made it possible for us to grow up with her magical world. :)**

**Enjoy the chapter and let me know, if this is something you'd like to read more about! ;)**

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"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" Harry Potter's voice was barely a whisper, but the eerie silence in the Hall made it sound loud and clear. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does… I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

Voldemort's hands were trembling. Trembling with rage, anticipation – and fear. A fear so raw and chilling, it shook him to the core with the knowledge that Harry Potter was in possession of a weapon more powerful than his. A weapon Voldemort was, at this very important, life-altering moment, holding in his hand.

No, he would not be defeated by a boy who'd survived by littering his path with the bodies of his friends; people he'd used as shields to hide behind while Dumbledore's great plan had been put into motion. But Dumbledore was dead, the old fool's corpse rotting away on these very grounds, weak and defeated.

_He_ had triumphed! _He_ was holding the Elder Wand in his hands, the one he'd stolen from Albus Dumbledore's grave. _He_ had outwitted death not once, not twice but seven times!

Harry Potter would not defeat him, the greatest wizard of all time; one whose name would always be remembered with fear and respect, while the Boy Who Lived would long be forgotten by those who dared oppose him.

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them, announcing the beginning of a new day, a new era that would see the rise of one great wizard while ending the life of another.

That bone-trembling fear was replaced by a flaming, all-consuming rage; Harry Potter was nothing compared to Lord Voldemort! He'd performed magic the boy couldn't even dream of, re-defined the very boundaries of magic itself. He would _not_ fall today!

_"__Avada Kedavra!__"_

_"__Expelliarmus!__"_

Their spells hit in the centre of the circle with a deafening bang and a blur of red and golden flames. For a split second, Voldemort could feel the sheer power of the Elder Wand's magic cursing through his veins as the jet of green light from his own spell flew towards Harry Potter – but the look of triumph on his face turned into one of blank horror as the wand was knocked out of his hand, spinning across the enchanted ceiling and towards the master it would not kill.

Tom Riddle never saw the look of relief pass over Harry Potter's features as he caught the Elder Wand in his free hand, never heard the deafening roar of victory from the many people around them as his dead body hit the floor with a mundane finality.

.

The time Tom Riddle spent in an infinitely dark state of numbness seemed endless, the despicable remains of what had once been the brilliant mind of a young man with a promising-looking future.

He'd already begun to accept this new form of existence, concluding that it was better to live in darkness than not living at all; when all of a sudden, the numbness was mercilessly ripped away from him, opening the gate for a flood of emotions breaking down on him like a giant wave.

For a moment, all Tom could do was gasp for air, the dust entering his aching lungs making him double over with a series of violent coughs. Tears gathered in his eyes from the lack of oxygen, but he willed his body to calm down and even out his breathing.

Regaining control over his bodily functions after a few minutes, Tom started with the surveillance of his surroundings; it was dark, the space around him confined when his fingers brushed the wooden surface of a wall to both of his sides, and the air permeated with dust. To his great relief, however, he had not been locked up in a coffin, as one might conclude people would do after one's death; yet, here he was, alive and breathing, his loudly thumping heart evidence that Tom Riddle had survived a rebounding death curse.

A triumphant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The boy had probably overlooked a Horcrux in his glorious quest to defeated the most powerful wizard of all time; a foolish mistake, but Harry Potter had never been known for his intelligence. If not for that Mudblood Granger, he wouldn't have lasted a day out in the field – maybe Tom should've gotten rid of the girl from the beginning, leaving Weasley as Potter's only companion, an even more incompetent fool than the boy himself.

Sitting up in what was obviously a bed, Tom stretched and turned his muscles. His eyes had yet to grow used to the lack of light in this place, but he didn't need to see to know that his body was unharmed – the lack of pain was evidence enough.

More concerning was the fact that his wand wasn't at his side and although Lord Voldemort didn't necessarily need one to perform magic, its presence had always been oddly comforting. The control he had over his magical core was unrivalled by anyone Tom had ever met on his long journey to greatness; except for Albus Dumbledore perhaps. But many of the old fool's tricks had come due to him being in possession of the infamous Elder Wand and Tom was almost certainly sure that, in a fair duel, he would have prevailed – his natural ability had matched the one of a man armed with the most powerful wand to ever have been created.

What sent a jolt of fear through his body once more, however, was the severely underdeveloped state of his magical core. It reminded Tom more of the one he'd expect to find in a child than the one he _knew_ he possessed – or had been in possession of. How was this possible?

He hadn't been this weak after that fateful night in Godric's Hollow when he'd killed James and Lily Potter and failed to deliver the final blow to their one-year-old infant son.

His surroundings had slowly started to take shape, even though his vision was so blurry, Tom could hardly make out more than random silhouettes. He raised his hands to eyelevel and carefully examined them, before exhaling a shaky breath; they were distinctively smaller than those of an adult, as was the rest of his body.

The touch of his fingers felt cool against the skin of his cheekbones, his short hair was messy which could be attributed to his new body having been asleep, and there was a scar… on the middle of his forehead.

An audible gasp escaped him, his eyes wide with shock as understanding began to dawn on him. It was definitely there, the unmistakable lightning-shaped bump on his otherwise smooth skin; a reminder of the hardships this young body had endured.

Tom closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath to calm the looming storm of thoughts and emotions before it escalated to a crescendo. It was easier to maintain control over a more experienced, grown-up mind that acted more on logic than its young, still developing counterpart that was ruled mainly by feelings and impulsiveness. Right now, however, Tom Riddle needed a clear head to process and work with the information he'd just uncovered.

He deliberately chose to let a couple of minutes pass before he felt enough in control over his emotional state to summarise his theory.

Contrary to his initial belief, Tom had not escaped death; he _had_ died in Hogwarts' Great Hall, killed by his own rebounding spell. The Elder Wand had recognised Harry Potter as its true master and refused to turn on the boy, instead targeting the hand to unrightfully wield it.

It was easy to realise the mistakes he'd made regarding Severus' loyalty, how he'd been too blind to see the truth – but Potter had so willingly opened his eyes, hadn't even considered the consequences should Lord Voldemort prevail. Of course, he hadn't, not in that world – if Tom's revised theory could be trusted.

Because as things were currently standing, Tom Riddle was certain that, not only had he died – he'd been reincarnated as the one person he'd spent so many years to destroy; Harry Potter.

The fact should have sent him into another fit of rage considering the boy had publicly humiliated and then defeated him, pointing out that his gravest mistakes had led to his own downfall. But the anger he should have felt never came. Instead, a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed him as his lips curled into a triumphant, devilish smile.

He'd been reborn as Harry Potter, the one place no-one would care to look in for Tom Riddle's soul. They would all be so preoccupied fighting Voldemort, that they wouldn't see the danger lurking inside Harry Potter's body until it was too late – and Tom wouldn't even have to put up much of an effort to achieve his goal. Knowing Dumbledore, the old fool would probably discover the Horcruxes all by himself, bringing about his own demise while doing everything in his power to protect the Boy Who Lived.

Tom had no illusions that Lord Voldemort didn't exist in this universe; the scar on Potter's, _his_ face was proof of a killing curse gone wrong. He only had to be clever enough to not expose his true identity; there could only ever be one version of himself…

_'__And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...'_

Those were the words Sybill Trelawny had said to Albus Dumbledore at the Hog's Head Pub, the prophecy Tom had been willing to expose himself to the Ministry for only so he could hear it. In the end, it had not helped him win but it gave him a considerable advantage now that he embodied Harry Potter.

How his soul could inhabit the body of the boy he'd unwillingly turned into a Horcrux when the killing curse backfired was anyone's guess. Tom suspected that it was possible because _he_ hadn't done the deed, not in this world – but did it mean that Lily Potter's sacrifice would grant him the same protection as it did to her son? It was certainly an intriguing theory, one he'd continue to study as the years passed by, but it was not his primary concern right now.

The absence of a fully developed magical core, however, was, because it made him weak and vulnerable. The only protection he currently had was his new identity, but Tom was no fool; he was aware of Dumbledore's reputation as one of the greatest Legilimens of all time, knowing the older wizard could enter Potter's mind effortlessly – if Tom didn't take preventive measures, that was. And he was a master at both Occlumency and Legilimency; so adept that he could plant visions in other people's heads undetected, making them believe that what they saw was real. He'd done it to Potter in the boy's fifth year, luring him to the Ministry in the middle of the night under false pretences – and Harry Potter had not disappointed. Had it not been for Lucius' incompetence to lead a fight against a horde of students, the prophecy would have been _his_.

Tom scowled, his fingers unwillingly curling into fists. He really needed to get this body under control before this rollercoaster of emotions got out of hand.

Deciding that it was time to further inspect his surroundings, considering that they were most probably going to be his new home, Tom turned around in search of a source of light. He did know that Muggles used electricity to power their houses and machines, but wizards didn't need fickle inventions when they had magic at their disposal. It was one of many smaller problems he'd no doubt be facing in his immediate future; a future he'd spend redeveloping his magical core until he had a wand in his possession once again.

He found what appeared to be a switch somewhere on his right and flipped it. The harsh, bright white of the lightbulb above his head momentarily blinded him and he instinctively used his hand to shield his burning eyes.

His blurry vision cleared once Tom remembered to put on the spectacles lying on a nightstand next to the bed. He blinked a few times to get rid of the white dots dancing before his eyes, then he looked around.

His 'room', if you could call it that, was incredibly tiny. In fact, there was so little space that Tom wondered how these Muggles had managed to cramp in a small closet, a bed and a nightstand without using magic.

Turning up his nose in disgust at discovering that he apparently shared his confined space with a handful of spiders and a thin but visible layer of dust, he immediately came to the decision that Tom Riddle, Harry Potter or not, would _not_ be living in a wooden cage.

The boy might have been clueless about his heritage, but _he_ wasn't and even if his magical core was severely underdeveloped, he'd always had enough control over his abilities to _make people do things_. Not world-shaking commands however he pleased, but simple… _wishes_ they'd simply been unable to deny and the Muggles inhabiting _this_ house would have to comply as well. Tom just had to make sure that the changes would come gradually and non-violently; it had been his tendency toward control and darker thoughts that had alerted Dumbledore's suspicion – there was no need for a repeat, even if his new body belonged to one Harry Potter.

Another, albeit not really surprising, yet infuriating and equally amusing fact Tom discovered, was that Vernon and Petunia Dursley apparently thought they could lock him up in this room. Him, the great Lord Voldemort, detained by a simple latch?

A dry, humourless laugh escaped his lips. Perhaps he would have some fun with these Muggles, after all… Not as long as he had to stay off the radar, of course, but later…

Accidental magic was not uncommon among young wizards and witches, and the fact that Tom was already in possession of a magical core also meant that he could use it – if only very restrictively. As long as he didn't perform major magic but merely what little was normal for boys his age, he should be relatively safe.

Judging from his height and the size of his core, Tom suspected Harry to be roughly between eight and ten years old. His body was thin, perhaps a sign of malnutrition and another thing he needed to take care of, but he had no signs of other forms of physical abuse. How Potter had still been able to remain loyal to Dumbledore despite having been forced to live with his relatives was beyond him. Tom had despised the idea of having to go back to Wool's each summer; he'd eventually begun to project those feelings of hatred at the man he deemed responsible for putting him through the hardships during those weeks every year.

But Tom had learned that bullies could only be kept in check by making them fear him; and that's what he'd done to protect himself when no-one else would.

It took him more effort than expected to unlock the latch at the door and slip out into what appeared to be a small but tidy hallway. Countless pictures of the Dursley family decorated the wall opposite of the stairs leading to the upper floor; probably where the rest of Potter's relatives had their respective bedrooms.

Next to the entrance was a brass-coloured umbrella stand, five pairs of neat shoes and expensive-looking coats as well as a small, white table with a telephone, two sets of keys and a digital clock on it. The red numbers were glowing ominously in the unlit hallway that was only illuminated by the silver rays of moonlight shining through the milky glass to both sides of the door. It was 3:46 am, rather early to be awake but Tom wasn't tired or exhausted as he probably should have been after having just been killed and resurrected.

Frankly, he felt quite adventurous and bold at the moment; probably partly an attribution to his young age and the urge to explore that came with it. With no further ado, Tom quietly traversed the empty hallway and found himself in a rather spacious kitchen. It was obvious that the Dursleys possessed more money than he would've given them credit for; but the neighbourhood, the size of their house and pictures from past holiday trips to expensive-looking destinations made it quite clear that they weren't exactly poor either.

Having grown up in the Muggle world, albeit around sixty years ago, had given him some insight into their economic and political system; and Tom had had to charm his way around the non-magical society more than once. It didn't mean he liked it, it merely meant he was familiar with how they operated and knew to use it to his advantage.

The fridge was filled to the brim with food, which strongly supported his suspicions that Potter hadn't really been a welcomed addition to the family. There also were three cans of could soup labelled 'Harry' and Tom wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to eat their contents – definitely something that would have to change, if he continued to live within the safety of Dumbledore's blood spell.

Of course, there were other possibilities for him as well; such as the Black estate or another wizarding family, if he chose to make his current living conditions public, but then he'd lose the protection Privet Drive Number 4 provided. He could probably even convince Lucius Malfoy to take him in, which would place him in the direct care of a pureblooded family but then Dumbledore would either keep a very close eye on him or, more likely, put down his foot and ship him back to Potter's last remaining relatives.

Tom closed the fridge with a sigh, massaging his temples. There was much for him to consider and think about and not much room for mistrials, if he wanted to succeed in ridding this world of its version of Lord Voldemort in order to take his place – wearing the face of Harry Potter, the saviour everyone thought would come to their rescue.

Ironic, considering the lengths the boy had gone to to kill him; but why should only self-crowned heroes be granted a second chance at life? The Boy Who Lived over He Who Must Not Be Named?

What did that make him, now that Lord Voldemort inhabited the body of Harry Potter?

The Lord Who Lived? The Boy Who Must Not Be Named? Lord Potter?

He returned to the cupboard under the stairs once his self-led house tour was over and he had gotten a rough image of the place and people he was going to live with. Not that it was anything to look forward to, but it would do. With age came more liberties, he'd just have to be patient enough to not murder this entire household before Dumbledore was gone; the consequences of discovery could potentially be catastrophic – because, if Dumbledore knew his true identity, Lord Voldemort would, too.

.

Three hours later, Petunia Dursley descended the stairs to prepare breakfast for her husband and son, unlocking her nephew's lock on the way to the kitchen. A quick but decisive bump on the door was all the warning she gave for him to get up and help; otherwise she'd send him back to his cupboard without a meal. Little did she know that Harry Potter's body was no longer his own and the changes this new inhabitant would inevitably bring upon her family…

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**Since Tom Riddle grew up in a Muggle orphanage and was sent back there each summer, I imagine he knows a lot about their ways of living. I know that he hates them but I'd like to think that he is smart enough not to openly display those feelings, especially since he now as to navigate his way through a world with two major enemies: Dumbledore and this other version of Voldemort. :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's a first glimpse at what Tom's life with the Dursley's is like and how he handles it. **

**I'm trying very hard to stay in character here, but since Voldemort never directly interacted with neither the Dursleys nor any other Muggles in the books, I can only try to imagine what this intercation could look like.**

**I really hope I'm doing it justice! ;)**

**Unfortunately, I still don't own any of the characters - the wonderful J.K. Rowling does.**

**Enjoy the chapter and let me know what you guys think! :)**

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The following morning, Tom's initial urge to explore his new environment had largely subsided. He had no desire to get familiar with the surrounding neighbours; they were of no importance for his future and he wouldn't waste precious time nurturing unnecessary relationships.

The ones that were more significant at this moment, however, were of an alarmingly negative nature. While Tom discovered that Potter's aunt seemed slightly more tolerant than her husband, Vernon Dursley hated his nephew with a passion – and he used every opportunity to let the boy know.

Their only son, Dudley, a big boy with watery blue eyes who reminded Tom more of a pig wearing a blonde wig, seemed to take largely after his father. All in all, they were a despicable bunch of people having to share a house with and Tom, quietly but intently observing the scene at the breakfast table, decided that, come tomorrow, things were going to change in the Dursley-Potter household.

.

At first, the changes were subtle; objects switching places seemingly on their own, malfunctioning devices, a car engine that refused to start… It almost looked like the Dursleys were having a streak of bad luck, but one Tom Riddle knew better.

He watched with a devious smirk as Petunia frantically rearranged the toiletries in the upper-floor bathroom before her husband got up for work that morning. There was no need to unnecessarily upset Vernon in her eyes, especially not with such trivial things as moving toothbrushes or shampoo bottles.

"OBJECTS DON'T MAGICALLY GROW LEGS!" he'd lost his patience one evening when they'd all been sitting at the dinner table. "THERE IS NO MAGIC! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THE 'M' WORD IN THIS HOUSE AGAIN, HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?"

Dudley and Petunia, obviously taken aback and shaken by his sudden outburst, had nodded mechanically, eyes wide with shock. Tom, on the other hand, had stared at Vernon Dursley with the faintest hint of satisfaction; the seeds he'd so carefully been planting were finally starting to grow roots.

Petunia Dursley was a quick learner. She soon discovered the connection between this 'streak of bad luck' and her nephew who never seemed quite as surprised about missing keys or other mishaps as the rest of the family. Of course, she disapproved; her sister's lot had no business interfering with normal people's lives! Bad enough that she and Vernon had had to take in her freak of a nephew and treat him as their own… but Tom noticed with some satisfaction that Petunia seemed to be frightened enough by her husband's wayward tempter that she kept those thoughts to herself.

In the days to follow, Tom would deliberately drop hints to let her know he didn't like the way he was being treated and she understood. It was a little bit like conditioning a dog to learn new tricks using the stick or carrot principle.

It was quite simple, really; the more Tom got punished or forced to complete chores unsuited to a child Harry's age, the worse the Dursley's streak of bad luck seemed to get.

It was a hard piece of work; one that should probably have been a lot more tedious than it actually was, but in reality, it was the perfect opportunity for Tom to train and shape his own magical core. Only to a certain extent, of course, because there was little he was allowed to do within the boundaries of the law before the first Ministry officials would be knocking on his door. Still, it was significantly better than having to wait another year until Tom Riddle would finally set foot on Hogwarts' grounds again where he'd have no problems using more advanced magic.

During his first two weeks with the Dursleys, he also discovered that Harry and Dudley were both attending St. Grogory's Primary School and that he'd be returning there in September. It was going to be Potter's last year at this particular institution before the Dursleys would be sending him to Stonewall High, a public secondary school in the area. Not that Tom would have to worry about any of that; he'd be on his way to Hogwarts by then, he just needed to be patient enough.

Without legally being allowed to perform magic, however, that particular task was easier said than done and Tom tried to busy himself with honing his Occlumency skills in the meantime. It wasn't only a good way to avoid dealing with the Dursleys more than absolutely necessary, it also happened to be a great mental exercise; building strong walls of protection around one's mind required an enormous amount of focus. Each layer had to be weaved with precise carefulness and Tom now faced the additional challenge of constructing his shields so that anyone who tried to intrude would only find the personality of Harry Potter – any traces of Tom Riddle or Lord Voldemort had to disappear.

Time was precious and there wasn't much left until his Hogwarts letter would arrive; most likely accompanied by a member of staff, seeing as he was being raised by a Muggle family. The Deputy Headmistress was probably the primary choice, but Tom wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to pick up the Boy Who Lived himself. In that case, a firmly standing wall of protection around his mind was of the utmost importance, so Tom needed every minute he could spare between school and teaching the Dursleys a lesson.

.

By the time Christmas rolled around, Harry Potter had undergone several major changes. Firstly, he was no longer forced to wear Dudley's old, worn-out clothes and had gained enough weight to bear more resemblance to a human being than a walking skeleton. Secondly, his performance in class had improved by a mile; mainly because Tom saw no reason to put additional effort into hiding his intelligence and soon found himself solving secondary level math problems.

Mrs. Roemmele, headmistress at St. Grogory's, delighted to have such a bright young mind among her protégés, went as far as offering Tom to sit his SATs a few months earlier, but he declined. His future path would take him to Hogwarts, not to one of the many doubtlessly prestigious universities in the Muggle world.

At home, Petunia and Tom had come to a silent but mutual understanding; she treated him with the necessary respect, he'd refrain from moving around random objects in the house. Of course, reigning in her bully-duo of son and husband was part of that agreement, but the cupboard under the stairs still posed a huge problem; sleeping in a place that bore more resemblance to a prison than a bedroom was something that greatly disagreed with his idea of a proper home.

He decided to address the issue at the breakfast table on Christmas morning. The upcoming festivities had the Dursleys in a generally happier mood and Tom knew from experience that content people were more likely to give in to a request. He didn't care much for Christmas himself; it was a Muggle holiday celebrating the birth of _their_ saviour – why should a wizard be partaking in such ridiculous nonsense?

Patiently waiting for the three Dursleys to settle down, Tom finally cleared his throat, prompting three entirely different reactions. Petunia froze in mid-movement, her hand hovering mere inches above the jar of marmalade while her face had lost all colour. Dudley looked even more dumbfounded than ever and it was clear that both mother and son were anticipating Vernon Dursley's reaction, unsure of how to deal with Harry's sudden boldness at the breakfast table.

Tom, however, remained completely calm while the older man slowly lowered his newspaper and stared at his nephew with narrowed eyes, his bushy moustache shivering dangerously.

"What is it now, boy?" It was an obvious attempt at keeping things civil on Christmas morning, but the man was a ticking time bomb and Tom had every intention of seeing it explode today.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

"Since it's Christmas and I'm beginning to outgrow my cupboard," Tom began calmly, "which I'm sure you've noticed, too, I'm thinking that it'd be best, if I moved into Dudley's second bedroom… Don't you agree?"

With every word, Vernon Dursley's face turned a shade darker but Tom had been planning this conversation with the utmost carefulness. He'd been practising control over what little magical ability he currently possessed for the last five months; there was nothing any of these Muggles could do to stop him from getting what he wanted – not as long as he had the benefit of performing 'accidental magic'. He was too young to attend Hogwarts, no Ministry official would suspect him of foul play until he got a hold of his first wand.

This time, it was Vernon who cleared his throat, folding the newspaper and placing it neatly next to his plate. Noticing the frightened expression on his wife's face, however, he took a deep breath and forced out a smile; though in Tom's opinion, it looked like it was causing him severe pain.

"Well," Mr. Dursley tried, the supressed anger clearly audible in his voice. "We raise you since you were a baby, give you food and even let you have your very own bedroom in this house… purely out of the goodness of our hearts. So it stands to reason to think you'd be more grateful to the people who've been nothing but forthcoming since the day we found you on our doorstep."

Tom didn't flinch. "I don't think making anyone sleep in a closet for ten years is a very generous gesture."

He could literally see the vein on Vernon Dursley's temple throb, his jaw clenching as the man fought to remain calm. No-one, especially not his freak nephew was allowed to tell him how to rule his own household.

"Listen, listen carefully now, boy," Vernon sneered, pointing one of his fat fingers at Tom. "If you think you deserve some special treatment because your miserable parents got themselves killed, you're sorely mistaken. You take what we give you, and you're going to be grateful – have I made myself clear?"

Tom cocked his head a little, a smile gracing his features. This was the moment he'd been waiting for; the moment he'd show Vernon Dursley that there was more to Harry Potter than met the eye.

"You have," he replied, meeting the older man's furious gaze calmly. "But I refuse to – how did you put it – take what I'm given and be grateful?" The four butter knives on the table began to shake dangerously and Petunia instinctively leaned backwards on her chair. "I expect you to let me move into Dudley's second bedroom and treat me with the same respect you'd show any other decent human being."

Vernon snorted depreciatingly and Tom narrowed his eyes. If any of the Dursleys knew whom they were talking to, they'd all be cowering in fear – but, alas, they didn't, and he was forced to play whatever small trump he'd been granted in his second lifetime.

"Oh, you will," Tom said confidently, his trademark smile never leaving his face. "Otherwise you'll find that I'm capable of making your lives equally as miserable, trust me."

"YOU DARE THREATEN _ME_, BOY?" Vernon thundered, standing up so abruptly that his chair toppled over. "YOU DARE THREATEN MY FAMILY IN MY OWN HOME! I WILL –"

But they never did find out exactly what it was that Vernon Dursley planned on doing, because at this moment four butter knives shot up in the air, their blades pointing directly at his dark red face.

"You'll do exactly as I say," Tom replied, his eyes never leaving Vernon's. "Dudley's second bedroom, no more silly chores and punishments. I'm not an animal you can kick around however you please; those times are over."

There was a brief moment of silence, before Vernon found his voice again: "You – you can't harm us, even your lot has laws about that…"

"_My_ lot?" Tom exclaimed.

He'd never heard anyone, let alone a _Muggle_ speak about the wizarding community like that – although the Dursleys probably mistook the question for his lack of knowledge about his heritage. It made a whole new form of anger boil up inside him and he clenched his hands into fists below the table, fingernails pressing into his skin, to remain calm. This was outrageous, unacceptable on the highest level, but Tom Riddle could _not_ show his true face, no matter how much his body was itching to use the killing curse on that fat mass of meat standing in front of him.

"What do you mean _my lot_?" Tom pressed on, deciding go keep up the charade of _not knowing_.

Oh, he'd enjoy watching the Dursleys squirm; it was the least they deserved for their obvious lack of respect for a superior race.

"I – I meant…" Vernon stammered, turning to his ashen-faced wife for help but it seemed that Petunia was determined to remain in a frozen state of shock.

"Nothing, I meant nothing!" her husband added sharply, obviously of the opinion that it was time to take back command within his own four walls. "Now stop asking questions!"

Clearly, he'd forgotten the knives that were still floating directly in front of him and Tom decided to give him a little reminder. Dudley let out an ear-piercing squeak and fled the kitchen, taking a handful of bacon with him.

"Arrrg!" Vernon instinctively took two steps back as the knives surged forward, stopping mere inches from his face.

"Stop lying," Tom warned him. "I want to know what you mean. Now."

But Vernon Dursley was apparently too occupied with a bunch of knives threatening to attack him that all he managed to say was a shaking: "Mimblewimble!"

It was Petunia who spoke up next, waking out of her stupor: "We need to tell him, Vernon. We promised…"

"I give a fig about what we promised – arrrg!" Tom had to give him some credit for his nerves to continue fighting, despite clearly having been outmatched.

"Tell me what exactly?" It was easy to fool them into believing he didn't know. Of course, it was only a matter of minutes until they'd break and come forward, but he enjoyed every single second of watching them squirm.

Petunia closed her eyes for a moment; she was remarkably calm for a woman who was being threatened by what she knew to be a wizard.

"When…" she took a deep breath. "When we found you on the doorstep ten years ago, there was a letter… detailing exactly what had happened the night before…" It quite obviously required a lot of effort to recount the story. "That your parents had been murdered and your safety depended on us… and by welcoming you into our home, we'd activate a spell that would protect you from the people responsible for the killing…"

Tom watched her carefully. He didn't dare intrude her mind, fearing that such advanced magic might draw the attention of the Ministry, but he could read her enough to know that her sister's death had affected her more than she let on. Good. If he needed to suffer, so did they.

"Go on," he urged.

"The letter also explained that you'd be attending a special school when you're older," Petunia continued, ignoring her husband's pleading whimpers. "A school for children with… _unique_ talents such as yours…" Her teary eyes turned towards him and she took a shaky breath. "You're a wizard... Now you know."

Tom raised an eyebrow. Interesting. The amount of effort those words had cost her hung heavy in the air, but to his surprise, she suddenly stood up and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt with her hands.

"We will not speak of this matter again," she informed him flatly. "Nor will you mention it to anyone else. If anyone asks, you'll be attending a boarding school in Scotland next year; you can have Dudley's second bedroom, you may join us for meals, but you will not perform any sort of _magic_ near or on us ever again."

Tom bowed his head, signalling his agreement and a barely visible smile of triumph tugged at the corners of his mouth. He may not have won the war, but this battle was his – despite the compromise of not using magic in this place. He'd have to stop doing that eventually, anyway, given the strict laws of underage magic in Great Britain.

"Agreed," Tom replied satisfied. "In return, you will show me more respect in the future."

"Fine," Petunia snapped. "Now go pack your things while I prepare Dudley's bedroom!"

"But Petunia, darling," Vernon cautiously threw in, still wary of the knives. "Do you really think we should –"

One pointed glare in his direction made him shut up effectively.

"I am frankly tired of vanishing objects, Vernon," she replied nonchalantly. "The boy will be gone next year, to return for only six weeks each summer until he's off age. I'm sure we can manage a peaceful state of existence for the time being," then, she turned back toward Tom, "but rest assured that I will get in contact with Mr. Dumbledore should your acts of vandalism continue."

That was something Tom could accept. His days of immunity from the law for performing underage magic outside of Hogwarts were numbered anyway; besides, he'd achieved everything he'd wanted. There was no need to unnecessarily risk exposing his true identity – he was sure that Harry Potter would never have dreamed of threatening his relatives, especially not like this, and if Tom wasn't careful, Albus Dumbledore would catch onto him.

* * *

**I mentioned earlier that writing this is quite the challenge and I really hope that Tom's reaction to the Dursleys and how he handles being treated like that is plausible.**

**I decided that he could get away with manipulating objects, seeing as the Ministry didn't do anything about Harry's accidental magic (boa constrictor, apparating to the school's rooftop, etc.) either. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for all the support! :) Your feedback is very much appreciated and I'll try to answer your questions as good as I can:**

** Fast Frank: I'm not from the UK myself, so I had to look up their education system online. They apparently have to take an exam (SAT, which stands for Standard Attainment Tests) at the end of their sixth year at Primary School.**

** They way I understood, it assesses their overall abilities in four areas (Mathematics, Reading, Writing and Science) to see how they compare to the rest of their peers. If I'm wrong, feel free to correct me! ;)**

**I really hope this chapter meets your approval because things get a little bit out of hand at the end there... ;) Just some incentive to get you guys to read through all of it. :D**

**Enjoy! :)**

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Ever since the incident on Christmas morning, Tom's life at the Dursley's had been a peaceful one. They mostly avoided each other and only ever talked when absolutely necessary; he even went as far as ignoring the fact that Lord Voldemort had to share a house with Muggles in favour of focusing solely on one thing: becoming Harry Potter.

It was tricky, discarding his own persona and opinions, and accept the ones of the boy he'd spent years to hunt down and kill.

Potter was a fierce defender of Mudbloods, halfwits and all sorts of inferior creatures such as house-elves and that giant oaf, Hagrid. Tom was very much aware that, in order to keep up appearances, he'd have to befriend people he'd rather not waste his time with – but Dumbledore had a keen mind and uncanny ability to see through others, he'd detect even the slightest of slip-ups and that was something Tom couldn't afford. Not, if he wanted to use the old fool's exorbitant sense of justice and the greater good to get rid of Lord Voldemort. He needed someone to destroy the Horcruxes and despite the fact that it would probably be much easier to smother the child in the cradle, Potter's inevitable fame and influence that came with defeating a newly arisen Dark Lord played an essential part in his plan.

Once Voldemort was gone, Tom would steer the wizarding community in the right direction, wearing the face of Harry Potter and no-one would be the wiser.

Unfortunately, every war required sacrifices and he'd have to stop dabbling in the Dark Arts – temporarily, of course – if he wanted to avoid Dumbledore's attention. Tom Riddle never wasted his time with things he considered unworthy, but he'd already achieved the difficult feat of becoming the most powerful dark wizard the world had ever seen – getting a second chance at life, he could perfect his skills in other areas.

Who knew, he might even try himself as a teacher; just like Potter when he'd formed his ridiculous army of students to teach them Defence Against the Dark Arts. Laughable, since Dumbledore had ever been the only worthy opponent who could best Tom in a duel – but the popularity Harry had received among his fellow students… Exactly what Tom needed now that he no longer had his loyal Deatheaters.

His magical core had lost some of its roughness and he'd honed his Occlumency skills as far as having full control over his temper. An almost perfect start into a new life…

Tom leaned back against the bench under the oak tree in St. Grogory's school yard with a content smile. Being young again brought back feelings of carelessness and freedom, when he hadn't carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The warm rays of sunshine had lured the students out of their classrooms during breaks and Tom enjoyed the breath of fresh air, the smell of flowers and grass – all without being bullied by Dudley and his gang. His obvious display of power at the breakfast table six months ago had intimidated Harry's cousin enough to scare him off once and for all. Of course, he'd told everyone that the freaky Potter boy was a waste of time and no longer worthy of Dudley Dursley's attention, leaving out the important detail of how he'd run from the kitchen screaming like a baby.

When Tom's last day at St. Grogory's was over, he and Dudley walked home in absolute silence. Come September, they'd both be going their separate ways and neither of them was particularly sad about it – Dudley, because he'd no longer have to spend time with his scary cousin; Tom, because he'd finally be in the company of other witches and wizards again.

Tomorrow, hundreds of Hogwarts letters would be sent out to new students and Tom was going to be one of the recipients. Britain's School for Witchcraft and Wizardry had been his home for seven years, a place he treasured greatly and was looking forward to visiting again.

That night, he spent hours imagining his new life as Harry Potter. He might have been the most powerful wizard once, but like Potter before him, Tom was now fighting that version of himself – the question was whom he'd be fighting the war with. Who'd be by his side? His own house was filled with young witches and wizards whose parents were loyal to Voldemort, so where'd Tom be searching for allies? _Granger_ and_Weasley_?

He sighed into the darkness of his bedroom. The thought of having to count a Mudblood and a family blood traitors among his friends was making him sick; however, exactly therein lay his problem. He was _Harry Potter_ now; Tom Riddle was history until the Lord Voldemort of this world was defeated.

Turning his head toward the open window, Tom stared at the crescent-shaped moon that stood in stark contrast to the black, starless night sky.

Seven years ago, Harry Potter had prevented him from getting the Philosopher's Stone in his possession. As tempting as the idea of claiming it for himself was, Tom knew he couldn't let Voldemort have it; a premature return of the Dark Lord was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

Of course, taking the matter of Quirrell to Dumbledore was out of the question; how would he explain the origin of his knowledge about Voldemort's current form of residence? It was impossible without raising suspicion. On the other hand, if he simply ignored the stone… Potter had managed to somehow retrieve it from the mirror, while Quirrell's attempts had all been in vain. One of Dumbledore's brilliant ideas to prevent him from returning…

Well, the Headmaster may have been the one to install these protective mechanisms but Potter had been the one to disable them, almost enabling Quirrell to get a hold of the Philosopher's Stone. This time, however, Tom was in control and he was intelligent enough to not put everything in jeopardy he'd spent the last seventeen years trying to achieve. Lord Voldemort needed to be destroyed so Tom Riddle could take his place.

.

Somehow, Tom had managed to fall asleep in the early hours of the morning and still be wide awake when Petunia called for breakfast at 7 am sharp. It was truly astounding how little rest his current body could live with.

Upon entering the kitchen, Dudley had already helped himself to a plate full of bacon and scrambled eggs, while Vernon and Petunia were both having toast with marmalade.

"Good morning," Tom greeted them politely and sat down next to Potter's aunt.

She was perhaps the only person in the family who wasn't intimidated by him; after getting over her initial reaction of shock, of course.

"Good morning," she returned coolly, taking a sip from her tea.

There were generally few words spoken at the breakfast table when Tom was present. While any normal person would have been surprised at the reaction, he felt a pang of pride and satisfaction about having put three bullies in their places. Oh, he was far from bossing the Dursleys around, but he was allowed to freely roam the house on his own now – a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

They hear the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat in the hallway and before any of the Dursleys could react, Tom had already stood up.

"I'll get the mail," he offered, leaving no room for discussion, and left the kitchen.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and the letter Tom had been waiting for.

He returned to the table with a content smirk and handed everyone their mail, before sitting down to open the heavy envelope addressed to:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Smallest Bedroom_

_Privet Drive 4_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

Not entirely accurate, but the Headmaster didn't need to know every single detail now, did he?

For a moment, the ripping sound of paper and a snort coming from Vernon were the only sounds echoing through the kitchen.

Then, Dudley, who apparently had noticed the letter in Tom's hand, suddenly shouted: "Dad! Dad, Harry's got something!"

Whatever it was Harry's whale of a cousin expected obviously never happened, because one look at Tom's expression to dare challenge his authority was all it took Vernon to send his son to his room.

"But –"

"I SAID OUT!" Mr. Dursley thundered when Dudley opened his mouth to protest. For whatever reason, he didn't want his son's delicate ears to be exposed to 'this magic nonsense' as he liked to call it, and as soon as the door had closed, he continued warningly: "If this is another one of your little _tricks_ to sabotage our lives, boy, I swear to God I'll –"

"Actually, it's my acceptance letter to Hogwarts," Tom interrupted him calmly. "You do remember our conversation from last Christmas, don't you?"

Vernon clenched his jaw tightly as a sign that he indeed remembered it quite vividly. So vividly, in fact, that Tom felt it was the only thing keeping him from another outbreak of anger. Good. At least, he'd made enough of an impression to keep Dursley's temper in check. A very satisfying thought that let a small smile appear on his features.

"I do…" Vernon pressed out.

"Oh, good. For a second there, I was afraid you'd already forgotten," Tom replied innocently, leaning back on his chair. "But, now that we're all on the same page, I think it's only fair of me to ask you for a ride to King's Cross on September 1…"

His smile was as sweet as it was fake, earning him two sets of furious glares from the adults sitting at the table with him. None of them, however, made any move to protest even though the all knew perfectly well that Tom hadn't asked them to do anything; he'd demanded, and it was a very wise decision on their part not to deny him.

"Good," Tom said happily, put the letter back in the envelope and stood up. "I'm glad we finally have an understanding."

There was a distinctive bounce in his step when he ascended the stairs leading to the upper floor. He hadn't felt this content and strangely at peace with himself in over five decades, and even though the thought of going to a place like Hogwarts didn't fill him with the same childish giddiness as it would a true first-year student, he felt a spark of excitement at returning to his old home.

He barely got past Dudley's bedroom when the door suddenly burst open and the other boy effectively blocked his way.

"What on earth was so important about your letter that dad sent me away?" he wanted to know with narrowed eyes.

"I'm a wizard," Tom said nonchalantly and without warning. "Which means I'm going to attend a school where they'll teach me about magic."

A mean grin spread over Dudley's features. "Yeah, right… A _special _school for _special_ children," he retorted sarcastically. "Probably a mental asylum, where scum like you belongs, _freak_."

The words reached Tom's ears; igniting searing flames of fury that set his veins on fire, drowning out Dudley's voice, until all he could hear was his rapidly beating heart.

The burning taste of magic was bitter on his tongue as the sudden urge to torture the other boy until he lay screaming at his feet, begging him for mercy, hit him with enough ferocity to almost bring him to his knees.

He needed to calm down. Now. Or the consequences of his actions would be severe; deadly even.

"Shut up," Tom said through clenched teeth, fighting the upcoming burst of magic. "For your own good, shut up before I hurt you."

Dudley, who had no idea of the turmoil raging on in Tom's mind, snorted: "Just because you scared my parents with the trick you pulled on them with the knives, doesn't mean I'm falling for it again, Potter! You don't tell _me_ what to do!"

The tips of his fingers were tingling with magical energy now; it was only a matter of time before it exploded.

"_Dudley_," Tom said warningly.

If the Ministry got wind of this, he was done for. Voldemort would know the kind of power he possessed, there'd be no staying off the radar anymore.

_Breathe_. In… and out… I… and out.

Somewhere, he could hear the sound of splitting glass and a scream that probably belonged to Petunia, but all Tom could focus on was regaining control of his magical powers.

In. Out. In. Out. _Breathe_!

He'd read about the girl whose out of control magic had burned down an entire village in his second year at Hogwarts.

In. Out. In. Out.

If the Dursleys died, the Aurors would take him away; and as much as he hated Harry Potter's family, they weren't worth a premature life sentence in Azkaban.

In. Out. In. Out.

Slowly, the walls around his mind started to rebuild. The tingling sensation retreated from his fingertips, up his arms, until it subsided entirely.

His harsh and ragged breathing evened out, returning to a normal rhythm. His heartbeat calmed down as Tom steadily increased control over his magical and bodily functions.

Opening his eyes, he stared into three pairs of mortified-looking eyes. Petunia and Vernon were protectively bent over their whimpering son who'd rolled into a shaking ball on the floor, hiding his face underneath his arms.

"I warned him not to provoke me," Tom finally explained, his voice tired and strained from the effort.

"He wouldn't listen."

He retreated to his bedroom, leaving the Dursleys to clean up the mess on their own. They wouldn't dare insult him anymore, that he was sure of; not after what had just happened. They didn't have to know that it was the lack of control over his own magic that had caused this kind of destruction. Admitting to weakness was to show one's vulnerability, and Tom Riddle wasn't _weak_.

He'd merely let his euphoria about returning to Hogwarts, his _home_, take over and disable the Occlumency shields he'd been working on over the last few months.

It would not happen again.

When Tom sat down at the small desk in his room, his face was blank and the hand holding the pen as steady as ever. To an innocent onlooker it would seem like nothing bad had happened just a couple of minutes ago; that Harry Potter had not just left his terrified relatives crying and cursing outside his bedroom door.

_Dear Deputy Headmistress McGonagall…_

The lines were short and precise. There was no need to inform anyone about more than his confirmation of attending Hogwarts and the need of assistance when buying his school supplies.

Tom neatly folded the letter, put it in the same envelope they'd used to send his acceptance letter and replaced his address with the one of the intended recipient. Then, he walked over the window, opened it and handed his message to the brown, regal-looking barn owl that had patiently been waiting on a nearby tree branch.

"Thank you," Tom said as the bird gracefully accepted the envelope and flew off into the grey sky.

Not the day he'd been hoping for and he'd probably be spending it within the comfortable solitude of his bedroom. There was no need for a repeat of the disaster from earlier and none of the Dursleys would dare disturb him here.

It was time for Tom Riddle to return to the world he belonged to, not remain in one inhabited by people who had no love nor appreciation for the sheer power of magic.

* * *

**To me, Tom is a very contradicting character. He's obviously very intelligent and can be this sweet little boy if he wants to, but at the same time, he's also a very proud person who isn't as in control of his emotions as he wants to make others believe.**

**I'm not going too much into detail here, just giving you a heads up that my version of Tom Riddle is more complex than 'I'm Voldemort, I'm powerful and evil and I'll kill you, if you disobey me'. ;)**

**Let me know what you thought of the chapter! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow, thanks for all the kind reviews and support! So happy that my story is so well received. :)**

**It's Tom's first visit to Diagon Alley as Harry Potter. I put a lot of thought into this chapter, especially the part where he buys his wand. For those of you who are interested in the different qualities of wand woods, Pottermore provides pretty good explanations - if you still want to know why I chose this particular wand for Tom, feel free to write me a pm. ;)**

**Enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think! :)**

**Note: I've changed the summary of the story. I noticed that I hadn't mentioned at all that Tom is reborn as Harry... So, thank you, _ombeline,_ for pointing out my error (sort of) in your review! :)**

* * *

There was nothing that interested Tom more than his upcoming visit to Diagon Alley. The prospect of holding a wand in his hands once again, the familiar and energising feeling of magic coursing through his veins and the undisputable power that came with it, made the waiting slightly more bearable.

It was a dull, grey morning on which Minerva McGonagall finally decided to show up at the front door of Privet Drive Number 4. Her long, black hair had been transformed into a tight bun that gave her features a stern look; combined with a set of dark green robes, she had a truly regal and intimidating appearance.

Tom had spotted the tall Transfiguration teacher almost immediately and observed the scene with keen interest from his bedroom window. He couldn't see which of the Dursleys had answered the door, the angle was too steep to see anything past the flowerbed, but it was of no consequence; McGonagall would come to visit him not matter how hard they'd try to get rid of her.

Furthermore, Tom had the distinct feeling that Harry Potter's relatives still remembered what had happened the last time someone provoked him and was sure they weren't looking for a repeat. They hadn't even so much as talked to him since this fateful first day of July. Not that he minded; their constant disapproval and sharp comments had tested his patience on more than one occasion – Tom had even been polite enough to warn them of the consequences of their disrespectful behaviour. A curtesy he rarely extended to anyone, let alone a bunch of _Muggles_. Unsurprisingly, they hadn't heeded his warning, thinking themselves superior of a boy who could end their lives within the blink of an eye.

A dry chuckle escaped his throat as he leaned his head against the wall, bringing his knees up to his chest while he waited for McGonagall to enter his room. She wouldn't pose a problem, not in terms of uncovering his secret because Tom had never heard of her being a Legilimens – which didn't mean that he could drop his guard around her. It merely made her less susceptible to recognise signs of Occlumency, not entirely incapable of reading his body language or interpreting his words.

A knock on the door announced McGonagall's arrival, and Tom – not forgetting his manners – got up and opened it for her.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she greeted him politely. "May I come in?"

He noted with some satisfaction that the woman apparently respected his persona enough to ask for entrance instead of simply letting herself in.

During Tom's time as a Hogwarts student, Albus Dumbledore had been the professor for Transfiguration and his memories of the subject, as a result, weren't particularly fond ones. Although he was inclined to grant McGonagall the chance to change his mind, seeing as she bore no ill feelings toward him; completely oblivious to the fact that there were two versions of Lord Voldemort roaming this world and that she was currently facing one of them.

"Good morning, Ma'am," Tom replied, giving her a small smile as he stepped aside to let her in. "Have a seat."

McGonagall quietly observed his room, her sharp eyes sweeping across his belongings as she gracefully sat down at his desk. Tom returned to his original spot on his bed, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his head against the wall while he patiently waited for her to speak up.

"A nice room you have there, Mr. Potter," she finally said after completing her observations, directing her gaze at him.

Tom shrugged. "It's nothing special," he responded to her obvious attempt at making small talk. "I don't really need much… But you're not here to talk about my living conditions, are you?"

"No, I'm not," McGonagall replied with chuckle. "Nevertheless, I do like to enquire about my students' wellbeing, Mr. Potter. There's little I'm not prepared to do to ensure the safe and adequate upbringing of a child; regardless of blood status and age."

She looked at him for a moment, as if to give him the opportunity to bring forward any complaints about the Dursleys, but he remained silent. There was nothing worth reporting, he'd handled their disrespectful behaviour in the past and was more than capable of doing it again – he didn't need her help.

"Very well," McGonagall said when Tom didn't respond. "I guess introductions are in order then; I'm Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House and teacher for Transfiguration. I'm here today to help you purchase your school supply, Mr. Potter, and answer any questions you might have about your first year in Hogwarts."

There was nothing she could tell him that Tom didn't already know about the castle or its inhabitants; if there was, he could only uncover those secrets himself. Of course, he could enquire about Potter's dead parents, but he'd killed them himself – sort of – and Tom wasn't interested in asking questions he already knew the answer to.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor," he replied respectfully. "But I don't think I have any questions right now – nothing important, at least… I'm sure much of it will be explained along the way…"

"Usually, most students bombard me with questions at this point," McGonagall said surprised. "Are you sure there's nothing you'd like to know, Mr. Potter?"

"I'm not most students, Professor," Tom replied with a charming smile. "So far, I've found many things to be self-explanatory, if one has enough patience to wait for an answer."

Professor McGonagall looked taken aback for a split second. Whatever it was that she'd expected upon arriving in Little Whinging, it certainly hadn't entailed Tom Riddle – not that she was aware of his true identity, but the average eleven-year-old probably showed a greater amount of excitement when meeting a Hogwarts professor for the first time.

"Very well." She elegantly rose from the chair and headed for the door. "If you're certain, I suggest you grab your shopping list and a pair of shoes. Meet me downstairs in five minutes, there's something I have to discuss with your aunt and uncle before we leave."

.

There was something magical and innocent about walking down Diagon Alley's main street as a young boy again. None of the many witches and wizards around them recognised his face or fled in panic when he passed by; truth be told, Tom was really enjoying himself that morning.

It had been a very long time, almost six decades, since he'd been to this place for reasons other than business and noticed that the stores had hardly changed at all over the years; except for their range of products, of course, as countless new inventions had led to a broader and generally more modern offer of goods.

"We'll have to withdraw some money from your family vault first, Mr. Potter," McGonagall informed him. "Gringotts is just down the street."

Yes, Tom knew where wizarding Britain's only bank was located but he quietly followed the Deputy Headmistress, observing the people around them with cool interest. So far, no familiar face had crossed his path and while Tom was acquainted with most of the sacred twenty-eight, he'd rarely cared for the rest of the populace – with the exception of his loyal followers, of course. There simply wasn't anything exciting about the common witch or wizard that'd strike the eye, which was probably why the adjective 'ordinary' was such a suitable description. The truly gifted, however, those with exceptional intelligence and talent, were of an exquisitely rare nature and Tom prided himself with having decorated his ranks with such individuals.

"Stay close to me," McGonagall told him as they neared the snow-white building. "And I should warn you not to infuriate any of the goblins, they do take protecting the vaults very seriously."

Obediently, Tom nodded and kept on following her closely as they ascended the marble stairs, passing one of the aforementioned creatures at the burnished bronze doors leading inside. Their swarthy, clever faces, long limbs and sharp, pointy teeth might have made them appear dangerous, but Tom knew first hand that goblins were as mortal and easily killed as his own species. Disappointing, really, considering how highly they were being held in esteem among the wizarding community.

But today, he hadn't come to shed blood; today marked a fresh start for Tom Riddle, the opportunity of a lifetime to win the war once and for all.

He observed his surroundings with a lopsided smile. All those people going innocently about their business, not knowing that young Harry Potter was walking among them, hiding a terrible secret underneath his quite ordinary exterior. Very amusing, indeed.

A little bit more straining was the ride down to the Potter family vault, as Tom had never developed a particular liking towards moving objects that weren't under his control. He'd found them to sporadically develop their own minds at times, but he was fortunately blessed with a great mind of his own and had found alternative solutions to most obstacles; flying without the need of a broomstick probably being one of the more prominent examples.

Potter's vault was filled to the brim with golden-shimmering Galleons, columns of Sickles and Knuts; a small fortune that now solely belonged to him. Perhaps he should have thanked the boy for killing him in the Great Hall, enabling him to achieve far greater things now that he wore the skin of his arch-enemy. But, alas, Harry Potter was no longer a character in this world and there was no-one Tom could have addressed his gratitude to…

Oddly enough, it was Griphook who'd been sent to accompany them to the London undergrounds; a twist of fate Tom found strangely amusing, seeing as this particular goblin had helped Potter break into Gringotts to steal Helga Hufflepuff's cup from the Lestrange vault. Tom silently wondered, if Griphook would meet the same end again… Likely, but then again, Harry Potter was no longer part of the great game. Time would tell…

They emerged from the depths of Gringotts an hour later, a heavy leather pouch dangling from Tom's hips filled with more money than he'd need for his regular first-year supplies. Not that he planned on purchasing much more than what was required now that McGonagall was accompanying him, but there might be one or two things that'd catch his eye along the way.

Madam Malkin was first on their list and Tom did his best to smile through the entire ordeal of having the cheery witch take his measures all the while babbling about how honoured she was to have the _great Harry Potter_ enter her shop. All his glorified greatness, however, didn't help Tom very much with getting a discount, although the way she'd been talking one would have thought she'd hand him his robes for free.

_Another time, perhaps_, Tom thought as McGonagall led him over to Flourish and Blotts where they'd purchase his books.

While he indeed liked to think of himself as an avid reader, Tom had no interest in opening a cover of _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ or _The Standard Book of Spells_. He'd pass all his subjects with flying colours as certain as death followed the killing curse; why would he waste time reading first-year school books?

Having spent roughly three hours with Minerva McGonagall already told him that she was not someone to be trifled with, leading to the safe conclusion that she'd very likely forbid him to purchase anything that'd exceed the educational level of an absolute beginner. Not that he was interested in publicly accessible literature of any kind. Much like the people Tom had surrounded himself with, it was the extraordinary he was looking for in a book – unforbidden spells, dark creatures… the list was short but exclusive. It was also why he didn't ask for anything but what was listed on his Hogwarts letter except for a small, leather-bound diary, earning him a few peculiar glances from the professor.

She did not, however, enquire as to his reasons, so Tom didn't provide an explanation and they continued their journey to the Apothecary mostly in silence. Occasionally, McGonagall would point out some highlights on the way, things she found worth mentioning to someone who, to her knowledge, visited Diagon Alley for the first time. Tom humoured her by asking random questions about his time at Hogwarts and discovered that her two favourite topics of conversation were Transfiguration and Quidditch. While he had no love for the no doubt popular wizarding sport, Tom had weeks ago decided to look for an alternative to the Dark Arts and considered McGonagall's subject to be the most challenging among all others. Of course, Hogwarts students were instructed to begin on a very basic level, working their way up as their education progressed but it wouldn't hurt to have a good starting relationship with his future professor. Dumbledore's favourite even.

"Transfigurations require a high level of concentration and skill," she explained matter-of-factly, but with the hint of a smile. "Only the most dedicated and talented students will be accepted to my NEWT classes, Mr. Potter."

Tom nodded, hiding a smirk. "I hadn't planned on taking my education lightly, Professor."

They were sitting at the table of one of the few restaurants in Diagon Alley, located neatly on top of a very askew building. Tom, not wanting to arouse any suspicions, had ordered a simple pasta with tomato sauce and orange juice while McGonagall was content with a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie.

She eyed him curiously from across the table, observing him quietly but not in a manner that was making him uncomfortable. Tom looked at her questioningly and she slightly shook her head, an absentminded smile on her face.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter," she said, putting aside her fork. "I was merely wondering what prompted your sudden interest in Transfiguration, if you don't mind me asking."

Tom shrugged. "I don't," he replied, letting his gaze wander. "You mentioned that Transfiguration is most probably the most difficult subject taught in Hogwarts, that only your best students are allowed in your NEWT classes. Well, I like a good challenge, something to occupy my mind with, prove to myself that life throws nothing at us that we can't handle."

"Interesting," McGonagall said after a brief moment of silence. "Most students tend to favour Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Few actually understand the delicate art of Transfigurations and the level of expertise these spells require."

"I already told you, Professor," Tom replied with a charming smile. "I'm not most students."

"Indeed, you're not…" Again, there was silence between them as they both let their gazes wander to the bustling activity down on the main street.

Tom could see the absentminded look in the professor's green eyes, as if she was putting a lot of thought into a matter she wasn't completely ready to share with him – yet. Of course, he could attempt to read her mind but he wasn't entirely sure that such a stunt would go unnoticed, so he finished his meal and patiently waited for her to collect herself.

Their last stop for the day was Mr. Ollivander's and while Tom looked forward to be reunited with a wand – not _his_ wand, mind you, as Voldemort was already in possession of it – he somehow dreaded the inevitable meeting with yet another brilliant Legilimens. Oh, yes, the old wandmaker had been particularly difficult to break, resisting his mental attacks until the very end and Tom made sure to check his shields for flaws, any weak points that might enable Ollivander to see the truth.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped through the door. Inside, it was as dark and dusty as Tom remembered from his very first visit to Diagon Alley; thousands of narrow boxes were piled right up to the ceiling, each of them containing a unique wand crafted by the hands of one of the most talented wandmakers in the world.

"Good afternoon." Mr. Ollivander stepped out of the shadows, wearing his trademark mysterious smile while his silvery eyes shone like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Tom replied, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.

He'd never been afraid of Ollivander, unlike many others he knew to have been 'creeped put' by his almost ghost-like presence. And while not exactly considering the man an ally, or even a friend, Tom respected his work; it had been the reason why he'd allowed Ollivander to live, despite his ever-growing fury about the Elder Wand.

"Ah yes," said the older man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Tom forced himself to keep his thoughts from drifting off while Ollivander went on about James Potter and, finally, arrived at the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead, _Tom's forehead_. It was difficult to remain neutral, to dismiss the all-consuming pain of the rebounding death curse and the bone-chilling fear that had overtaken him after his defeat. There were very few things Lord Voldemort truly feared; having met his match, or worse, a wizard more powerful than he, was one of them.

Tom swallowed down the knot in his throat as he gazed, for the first time, into Ollivander's silvery eyes.

"Yes, such terrible events have the unwelcome tendency to linger in one's mind," the old man replied knowingly. "Some memories last forever, Mr. Potter, and all we can really do is not to try to forget, but overshadow them with happier thoughts."

"I'll try," Tom said, shoving down his emotions with great effort.

"It's good to see you, too, Garrick," McGonagall, obviously sensing his discomfort, stepped in. "Mr. Potter has been through quite enough already, perhaps it would be prudent to give the poor boy some space to breathe."

Ollivander raised his eyes to look at her and bowed his head respectfully. "Of course, my dear," he said politely. "Do forgive me, Mr. Potter. Merely the curiosity of an old man, you must understand, I did not mean to frighten you. Now, which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed," Tom replied steadily.

Fortunately, Ollivander had mistaken his discomfort for fear and while Voldemort would have immediately rectified this error, Tom Riddle wasn't in any position to reveal himself. Using Harry Potter as a disguise was genius, but it also came with a number of disadvantages; some of which forced Tom into submission, little as he might like it.

"Hold out your arm, please. That's it."

It was a straining procedure, getting measured and a lecture about wand lore, but Tom waited patiently for Ollivander to take the first narrow boxes out of the shelves.

"Right then, Mr. Potter," he said cheerily. "Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

But Tom could already tell that this wand wasn't meant for him. He did as he was told, waving it at the spindly chair in the corner and Ollivander immediately snatched it out of his hand.

"Willow and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try –"

The cold wave of sheer dislike that hit Tom upon reaching out for the wand prompted him to retract his hand at once.

"I don't think this one seems to like me very much, Sir," he said with a polite smile.

"Is that so?" Ollivander mused, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "Interesting. Well, in this case, I know exactly what it is you are looking for, Mr. Potter."

Tom watched the old wandmaker retreat into the depths of the shop with a raised eyebrow. He'd never quite taken the time to understand the concept of wand lore and even though he was aware that 'the wand chose the wizard', Tom could only guess what Ollivander was searching for. Apparently, the man was quite certain to have found a match, for he returned with a single black box lying opened on his outstretched hands.

Ollivander was less than two metres away from Tom when the familiar sparks of magic surged through his body, making his fingertips tingle.

"Ah yes! Bravo, bravo!" The wandmaker cheered excitedly, clapping his hands after handing Tom the wand. "Bravo, indeed! Vine and phoenix feather. Twelve inches. Supple flexibility."

"I don't – I don't quite understand," Tom said, gently turning the elegantly-looking wand in his hands. "How could you know it would choose me?"

Ollivander's eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and knowledge. "Oh, every wand wood has its very own qualities, Mr. Potter," he explained while carefully putting the wand back into its box and wrapping it in brown paper. "It so happens that any customer, who received such a strong negative emotion from Willow, walked out the proud owner of a Vine wand. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter."

That Tom could agree with, he thought as he and McGonagall left the shop, having paid ten Galleons for his wand. They passed Eeylops Owl Emporium on their way to the Leaky Cauldron; a rather dark, smelly place full of owls of all kinds that was frequently visited by witches and wizards who sought to purchase their very own mail delivery pet.

Tom had never understood what all the fuss was about. There were more secure and much faster ways to communicate with another wizard that were less vulnerable to interceptions by the Ministry, less likely to be killed during their delivery and one didn't have to deal with dozens of letters lying around. Additionally, owls needed to be fed and their cages cleaned on a regular basis; to summarise, Tom simply failed to see the advantages of owning one of these birds.

"Thank you, Professor," he politely declined the offer of purchasing one. "But I'm sure Hogwarts' school owls will suffice for the time being. Maybe next year…"

McGonagall nodded. "Very well. Seeing as you've purchased everything on you list, I suggest we return you to your relatives, Mr. Potter."

Once again, she offered him her arm and despite the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as the world around him dissolved into a blur of images, Tom's feet firmly reached the ground as they reappeared in his bedroom.

McGonagall extended the courtesy of magically storing away his purchases, before announcing her leave.

"Do remember to be at King's Cross station on September 1 at eleven am sharp, Mr. Potter," she reminded him sternly, handing him his ticket. "Do not be late. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just have a quick word with your aunt and uncle." She turned around one more time to add: "Enjoy the rest of your summer, Mr. Potter, and remember: no magic outside of Hogwarts, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Tom replied steadily. "King's Cross station on September 1, platform 9 ¾. No magic outside of Hogwarts."

A small smile tugged at the corners of McGonagall's mouth as she exited his room with an elegant bow, closing the door behind her.

Letting out a sigh, Tom sat down on his bed and reached for the box containing his wand. The wood was of light colour with slender vines embracing it from the handle upwards; not particularly ugly, but Tom was surprised not to have been matched with Yew. His old wand had been carved of the wood rumoured to endow its possessor with the power of life and death; suitable to a wizard who had decided over so many fates. Vine, however, had never even been under Ollivander's consideration when Tom had been looking for another wand, one that didn't share a connection to Potter's. Elm was what the old wandmaker had suggested, Lucius Malfoy's wand. It hadn't served him very well, refusing to show the same brilliance his own had possessed.

So why Vine? And, even more curious, what would become of Potter's wand? Wouldn't it have been logical to match the Boy Who Lived with the only other wand to contain one of Fawkes' feathers? Then again, Harry Potter didn't exist; Tom Riddle did. Had his transition from one world to another altered his personality in a way that had prompted this Vine wand to recognise _him_ as its new master?

Questions he was unable to answer at the moment, seeing as he lacked the necessary literature and knowledge about wand lore and dimension travel in particular. Patience was the key ingredient and while Tom's reserves weren't endless, he did possess enough of it to wait for Hogwarts.

For what were two weeks compared to a lifetime of power and wealth?

* * *

**End of chapter 4! ;)**

**Next time, Tom will be going to Hogwarts, so stay tuned if you want to know whom he ends up with and _where_. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm back with another chapter! ;) It's even longer than the last one which is why I ended it immediately after the Sorting Ceremony. I'll talk more about that at the end to avoid any spoilers. **

**_janed12000:_ Thanks for you review, I'm glad you like the story! I think your question refers to part of chapter 3, right? Tom is only considering where to look for allies and since Ron and Hermione were Harry's best friends, I thought it only natural to mention them. It _doesn't_ mean that he'll be making friends with them though. ;)**

**That said, enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think! :)**

* * *

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Tom had stood on platform 9 ¾, admiring the scarlet steam engine that would take him to Hogwarts. Hordes of students already dressed in their school robes hurried past him with their trunks and pets, chatting animatedly and laughing – it was the exact opposite of the Dursley household. Potter's relatives had been fearing his wrath ever since the incident with Dudley in the upper-floor hallway, expecting him to burst into a fit of rage should they step 'out of line'; a fact Tom had taken advantage of immediately. They didn't dare deny him an important request, which was why none of them had so much as hesitated to drive him to King's Cross today – quite the contrary, actually, as they had all looked very relieved to finally be rid of him.

The memory turned his mouth into a devious smirk as he pushed his cart along the platform in search of a suitable carriage; preferably one that wasn't already packed with students. Fortunately, he was one of the early arrivals at King's Cross and found an empty compartment near the front of the train. An older Hufflepuff student was polite enough to help him lift his trunk up the stairs and store it in the overhead bin, before hurrying off to his friends.

Tom leaned back in his seat and spent the rest of the wait observing the crowd on the platform. He recognised the Malfoys; Lucius with his long blond mane and proud composure in particular, bidding his son farewell with a nod. Draco, Tom mused, he'd never felt that the boy had been entirely dedicated to the task which had ben bestowed upon him. Perhaps he could be worked on, persuaded to join Tom's side, if he planned it right; the boy would, after all, be sorted into Slytherin and Tom had yet to decide where he was going to end up himself. A network of well-formed connections could be a valuable advantage in fighting a war, especially if his allies were convinced beyond all doubt that they served the right purpose. Perhaps Tom should focus less on the House his potential 'friends' were sorted into and more on what he could gain from them; a supportive, influential family or a powerful wizard among his ranks… Then again, the people he surrounded himself with were probably going to accompany him for the rest of his life – or at least the next seven years… Difficult, difficult…

The train began to move and platform 9 ¾ soon disappeared as the Hogwarts Express rounded a corner, gathering speed until the passing landscape was reduced to a blur of images. Not long after, the door to his compartment slid open, revealing a girl with ridiculously bushy brown hair.

"Excuse me," she said pompously. "Is anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full."

Tom was immediately reminded of one of Lucius' peacocks. These blasted good-for-nothing birds carried themselves with an equal amount of pride, like they were the kings of the world.

The girl, oblivious to his train of thoughts, stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind her.

"Excellent," she said with a smile, dropping on the seat. "I'm Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger."

So _this_ was the insufferable know-it-all – as Severus had liked to call her – as a first-year? And of all the people on this train, she just _had_ to choose _him_, didn't she?

He suppressed a theatrical sigh and refrained from rolling his eyes. As much as he enjoyed his second chance at life, Granger certainly wasn't part of his plans – he wasn't anything like Potter, he didn't need a brain on two legs to tell him how to breathe.

"Of course, I already know who _you_ are," she continued rambling. "You're _Harry Potter_. I don't think there's anyone who doesn't know your name – I mean, you're _famous_! I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events in the Twentieth Century…"

Tom stared at her with equal fascination and horror. How could such a small, fragile person possess the ability to talk non-stop, words flowing out of her mouth like a flash flood, without even _drawing a breath once_?

There was one thing that suddenly became abundantly clear: whichever house Hermione Granger got sorted into, Tom Riddle would raise Hell to go elsewhere. How could people _stand her_?

"… a Muggle family," he heard her say. "It was such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft and wizardry there is, I've heard – I've learned all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough…"

Tom zoned out again. It was the only way to protect his ears from falling off and he deliberately focused on the scenery outside, as the grey city buildings had been replaced by green fields and hills, and the occasional lake or river. A beautiful landscape, Tom found, when someone wasn't trying to talk him to death.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, would you shut up for _five minutes_!" Tom was at the end of his tether, when the insufferable girl was still babbling after the sun had already set and the train was finally nearing Hogwarts.

Hermione blinked a few times, her mouth still opened to a quiet 'Oh'. His sudden outburst had obviously taken her by surprise.

"If you wanted me to stop talking," she finally snapped, narrowing her eyes. "All you had to do was ask_ nicely_!"

Merlin, was the girl so oblivious to her surroundings that she was incapable of noticing when enough was enough? How on bloody Earth could Potter possibly stand her? Weasley, yes. The boy had just slightly more brain than Crabbe and Goyle's offspring, Tom could see how he might have been able to tolerate her.

"If you had paid attention to my body language, Granger," he informed her bluntly. "You would have noticed yourself."

Hermione huffed, sullenly folding her arms as she glared at him. "For a famous person, you're not very nice, you know. Maybe someone should've told you _before_ sending you to a school filled with other _human beings_!"

"_Maybe_," Tom countered calmly, a smug smile appearing on his face.

A voice echoed through the train, interrupting their little conversation: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

"You should change, you know," Granger said, still glaring at him. "It's frowned upon for students to arrive in their everyday clothes."

Tom sighed. This girl would take him to an early grave – or, more likely, he'd give into this overwhelming urge to kill her.

"Oh, I hadn't noticed," he retorted sarcastically.

Tom had always been an excellent student, discovering early on that learning useful spells to make life easier – avoiding mundane activities such as changing his attire or carrying heavy bags for example – would spare him a lot of trouble. He'd simplified many processes throughout his career as a Hogwarts student, enjoying the nearly limitless possibilities of magic while his peers had contended themselves with what they'd been taught in class.

A quickly muttered incantation and an elegant flick of his wand later, Tom was neatly dressed in the school uniform he'd purchased in Diagon Alley two weeks earlier. Of course, Hermione had noticed and, _of course_, she had to voice her opinion out loud.

"The spell you just used," Granger blurted out disbelievingly. "It's highly advanced Transfiguration! You shouldn't be able to do that yet!"

Her wide-open eyes combined with the bushy mane of brown hair and ridiculously long front teeth gave her an almost frightening appearance; like a squirrel that had mated with a lion, and some kind of fish somewhere along the way. Tom ignored her. He was already beginning to sport a headache from all her rambling as it was.

"I did extensive background reading on Transfiguration," Granger pressed on, effectively blocking his way to the door. "There's no way a first-year student with absolutely _no magical practice at all _can successfully perform a conjuration spell. _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ explicitly states that Conjuration isn't taught until students have perfected Vanishment, a branch of Transfiguration that is part of the NEWT-level curriculum – so I'm asking you again; where did you learn that spell?"

It was ridiculous to even believe she could stop him from leaving, but the determined spark in her eyes told him that she'd raise Hell if he dared challenge her. Almost comical how she thought herself his equal, when Tom could easily end her life with a simple flick of his wand. But, alas, he was forced to play nice and if Granger planned on making things difficult for him, he saw no reason why he couldn't pay back in kind.

"I read, Granger," Tom replied coolly. "The difference between me and most other students is that I don't just talk the talk; I walk the walk. It's one thing to pride oneself on having learned a few school books by heart, but theory will only get you so far… Now kindly step aside, I'd like to exit the train before sunrise, if you don't mind."

Hermione did let him through, only to reappear at his side a heartbeat later. The corridor was filled to the brim with students pushing and shoving each other around in a fight to get off the train. It considerably slowed down the process and gave Granger more time to annoy him even further.

"So you're saying you're better than me?" she snapped and Tom shrugged. Not that he cared much. "Just because you've mastered _one_ spell doesn't make you stand above everyone else, Potter!"

Oh, so they were both resorting to calling each other by their last names… Well, maybe, if she hadn't been such an insufferable know-it-all and given him a break from time to time, he would have let her off the hook. The fact that Granger was a Mudblood made annoying her that much sweeter and while Tom usually didn't waste time on such trivial matters, he wasn't one to deny himself a little fun along the way. And Granger had just painted a beautiful target on her back.

"So far, I haven't seen you perform advanced magic, Granger," he said nonchalantly as the queue finally moved a few steps forward. "All you seem to be capable of is talking nonstop. It's rather annoying, in case you were wondering…"

"_You shouldn't even be able to do that!_" she hissed angrily. "Maybe I should just report you to the Headmaster."

This time, Tom actually rolled his eyes. "For what – besting you before we even set foot on Hogwarts grounds? Admit it, Granger, you're just jealous because I'm better than you."

They were shoved through the door quite roughly by a group of older Slytherins who apparently couldn't wait to get to the welcoming feast in the Great Hall. Tom couldn't blame them; he'd very much prefer to sit at one of the house tables himself rather than being exposed to Hermione bloody Granger for another minute.

"I am _not_ jealous," she protested, forcefully grabbing his robe as they were threatened to be separated by the other students. "And you're _not_ better than me! Hailing from a wizarding family doesn't mean anything, and I'll prove it to you!"

Ah, now they were getting to the bottom of this whole ordeal. The high and mighty Queen Granger, Mudblood extraordinaire – not that Tom could ever say those words to her face, if he wanted to gain popularity among his fellow peers – felt she had to prove her worth to the wizarding community… Well, who was he to deny her that simple wish? After all, a little 'friendly' competition between students couldn't hurt; none of these short-legged nuisances would ever best Lord Voldemort anyway and life without a (almost) worthy opponent was, straightforwardly, boring.

Fortunately, Hagrid's thundering voice interrupted them: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

Tom wrinkled his nose upon seeing the giant oaf, waving a lantern over their heads with enough force to kill a troll. His big, hairy face beamed over the sea of students as the newcomers slowly but surely gathered around him.

"C'mon, follow me – any more firs' years?" His voice was loud enough that people in Hogsmeade could probably still hear him. "Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

The sight of slipping and stumbling children all around him was pathetic. Tom had, with great foresight, cast an anti-slip charm on his shoes and while Hermione, who was as clumsy as the rest of the lot, hadn't caught him doing it, she was throwing suspicious glances in his direction all the way down to the lake.

The many "Oooohs!" and "Aaaahs!" sounding around him as they got their first good look at the castle didn't help the atmosphere at all. Tom blatantly ignored them in favour of the rising feeling of excitement bubbling up in his chest – an absolutely ridiculous word choice, unworthy of the Dark Lord. Yet, it was the only way to describe how Tom felt. Home, he was home. He was Salazar Slytherin's heir, he _belonged_ in Hogwarts and Tom knew that, should the Sorting Hat decide to put him in Slytherin, he would not protest in the slightest. It was the house he was destined to be in, the green and silver colours of its crest and the snake as its proud emblem. And why should Harry Potter only be considered for the rest of the Houses?

_Gryffindor_, Tom thought bitterly, a great wave of disgust washing over him. Oh, the high and mighty Gryffindors, lead by Dumbledore and his 'Order of the Phoenix', were probably even worse than those timid Hufflepuffs. The arrogance with which they proudly announced their bravery and just hearts was sickening. No wonder Granger had been put into the lion's den; she fit right in there with the lot of them.

If it wasn't Slytherin, Ravenclaw would do. He'd never had a particular dislike for the eagles, considering they didn't waste their time daring each other to do reckless deeds and were competitive enough to make things interesting. The only downside was probably their tendency to strictly follow school rules; marauders were frowned upon and openly criticised but Tom had developed the uncanny ability to stay out of sight and his undoubtedly excellent grades would give him a good standing among their ranks.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore.

It seemed that little had changed since Tom had first attended Hogwarts. The procedure of getting the first-year students to the castle was still the same and he found himself sitting in one of the boats in the front row. This time, he'd been spared the utterly annoying presence of Granger and instead shared a vessel with three other boys whose names he didn't know. They glided across the black lake, which was as smooth as glass, reflecting the lights of Hogwarts' halls.

It was a relatively short ride but it provided Tom with the solitude he needed to clear his head for the Sorting Ceremony. The hat would be looking into their minds and any trace of Voldemort needed to be gone by then.

They were greeted by a stern-looking Minerva McGonagall at the castle entrance, much to Tom's relief. Dressed in her usual emerald-green robes, she led them across the flagged stone floor and into an empty chamber off the Great Hall.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, silencing even the last excited whispers among her new students. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room."

Tom listened carefully while McGonagall delivered her speech. It was important to him to know the people he'd be dealing with and while he'd already made her acquaintance in Diagon Alley, Tom found that you could best learn about peoples' characters when watching them in their familiar environment. Their choice of words, their body language and how they treated others were important indicators as to who they were.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said McGonagall at last. "Please wait quietly."

Next to him, Granger suddenly looked less confident than she had on the train. She nervously fiddled with the hem of her robe, quietly repeating every spell she'd read about like a mantra. What'd she think was going to happen in the Great Hall? A war?

"So it's true what they're all saying," a new voice said behind him. "Harry Potter's finally attending Hogwarts."

Tom turned around, looking at the owner of the voice. He would have recognised that light blond hair, pale skin and blue eyes anywhere; this was Lucius Malfoy's son. Standing on either side of him were two other boys, both thickset and extremely mean-looking and most likely not the brightest stars in the sky.

"Yes," Tom said, keeping his tone polite.

"This is Crabbe and this is Goyle," Malfoy replied carelessly, noticing where Tom was looking. "And my name's Draco Malfoy."

Tom regarded the boy with cool interest. He had no love for the snobbish type thinking themselves above the rest while being average themselves at best. A brief glimpse into the mind of the Malfoy brat – Tom didn't have to fear alerting the Ministry within Hogwarts – told him enough to know that Lucius was a brightly shining light in his son's life, a great enough influence to turn the boy into a disrespectful slimeball.

"Nice to meet you, Draco Malfoy," Tom replied politely after careful consideration.

The boy was superficial at best but that only made him more susceptible to change and having allies in each of the four houses couldn't hurt.

Malfoy grinned, showing a row of perfectly straight teeth. "Good. You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand and Tom, who realised that they were now the centre of everyone's attention, shook it politely.

"Thank you for the offer, Malfoy," Tom replied with a smile. No need to get off on the wrong foot this early. "Your help is much appreciated, but I'm more than capable of choosing my friends myself. I should like to get back to you, if I feel differently."

A pink tinge appeared on Malfoy's pale cheeks, but it was obvious that he didn't want to cause a scene in front of their entire year so he merely shrugged.

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful," Tom said. "I just don't like people telling me what I can and cannot do – which doesn't mean I'm opposed to a friendship, Draco."

"The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." Professor McGonagall had returned, interrupting their conversation. "Now, form a line and follow me."

They did and Tom found himself walking in front of Malfoy and behind a sandy-haired boy who was almost a full head taller than him. The double door to the Great Hall swung open and revealed four festively decorated tables at which the other students were seated, watching the newcomers with curious glances. Thousands of candles were floating in mid-air, their warm lights reflecting in the many glittering golden plates and goblets. A truly beautiful sight to behold, the complete opposite of the dark and tense atmosphere when Tom had last visited this place.

A glance at the teacher's table revealed that many of the chairs now accommodated new faces, some of which Tom was already familiar with – such as Flitwick, Snape, Quirrell, Trelawny, Sprout and Dumbledore – and others he'd surely get to know soon.

The first-years gathered in front of the high table and a four-legged stool, on top of which McGonagall put a pointed wizard's hat; the Sorting Hat. It was in considerably better shape then when Tom had last seen it in the Battle of Hogwarts, when Longbottom had drawn the legendary Sword of Gryffindor from it and used the weapon to kill Nagini.

He barely listened as the hat opened its mouth and began to sing its annually start-of-the-term song.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Someone whispered behind him, as the whole hall applauded the performance. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Tom smiled weakly. Oh, the creative minds of children – truly amusing, the kind of nonsense they could come up with.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward and the applause died down.

"When I call your name," she said, holding a long roll of parchment, "you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"

Tom watched as a girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line and shyly followed McGonagall's instructions. The Sorting had always been a very entertaining and revealing ceremony with Tom trying to predict each new student's house before the hat publicly announced it; he'd gotten better with time but never entirely guessed the hat's decisions correctly.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The table to their right cheered loudly as Hannah went to sit with her new comrades, a wave of black and yellow.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Looks like the losers are getting them all today," he heard a girl whisper next to him – Parkinson?

Tom hadn't really bothered to get to know the Deatheaters' offspring that well; they'd only served a purpose most of the time anyway – why make an effort to learn names, when they'd be sacrificed in the end?

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

This time, however, Tom did pay attention to the Sorting. It was always an advantage to know your peers' names, not matter which house they got sorted into.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Oh, this would be interesting – even though Tom already knew where Granger would end up. The hat took almost five minutes before declaring her a Gryffindor and she marched off to a cheering crowd of red, gold and black.

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and the hat had barely touched his head, when it screamed: "SLYTHERIN!"

To be expected.

It wouldn't be long now until McGonagall would call his own name. He'd moved up a few places on the list this time since his last name had changed to Potter – not that it really mattered, but it shortened his waiting time.

Then, finally: "Potter, Harry!"

Tom approached the stool with more confidence than most of his peers, noting with some satisfaction the whispers going through the Great Hall when McGonagall had announced his name. Everyone'd be looking at him, he knew that and whatever house he got sorted into, it would define his friendships.

The hat dropped over his eyes, shielding him from the hall of people craning to get a good look at the Boy Who Lived.

Silence.

For the span of almost twenty seconds, the hat remained completely motionless and for the first time, Tom was met with uncertainty. Usually, students who'd taken longer to be sorted, had shared their experience of conversing with the hat quite vividly until it'd reached a decision. What was taking him so long?

"You ask why I am hesitating, Potter?" a familiar voice finally said in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. I never forget a mind, once I've seen what lies inside – very curious, indeed."

.

_Would you care to elaborate that statement?_

The boy was clever, brilliant even. The hat hadn't seen anything like him in over half a century, but it wasn't the brilliance which ignited a flame of worry; it was what lay underneath it. Hints of a darker side, barely tangible but it was _there_. No doubt about it.

Did he care to elaborate? Yes, indeed.

"No two minds are alike, Potter," the hat whispered. "It's curious that yours seems to remind me of another former Hogwarts student. Brilliant, oh yes, there's no doubt… Very eager to strive for perfection, a promising future… But where to put you?"

Slytherin. The hat could see it clear and bright before his eyes, there was no doubt where the boy belonged. But the four founders hadn't created him to solely base his decisions on logic alone.

Was it a coincidence that Harry Potter's mind bore such a great resemblance to the very wizard he'd defeated as an infant?

Acting on pure logic, Slytherin was the obvious choice; but the fine, barely tangible threads of a darker potential the hat had seen in Potter's mind made him hesitate. Tom Riddle had once been a promising-looking student but he'd shown the same signs and while the hat bore no ill-meant prejudices toward the noble house of Slytherin, the company Potter would find himself in would undoubtedly lead him down a more sinister path.

Fate? No, definitely not… or perhaps it was…?

"Difficult, difficult…" the hat muttered. "You could do well in Ravenclaw… There's talent, my goodness, yes…"

Then again, Rowena's house wasn't known for its loyalty and comradeship, a trait Potter seemed to value greatly. Hufflepuff… no, too quiet, too… _friendly_… but perhaps the right place to avoid a darker future… That left Gryffindor… but Potter didn't seem to be one for brash behaviour bordering on reckless… then again, neither had Miss Granger…

Oh, if only the hat could _see_ what lay in the future! It would make this particular decision so much easier. Unfortunately, the spells the founders had bound him with prevented him from discussing the Sorting with anyone but the student in question – otherwise he'd consult with Albus after the feast, tell him about his concerns, the similarities between Potter and Riddle…

.

The hat had, once again, gone silent for almost a full minute.

_I'd hate nothing more than to interrupt your train of thoughts_, he could hear Potter's mind,_ but wouldn't it be prudent to continue with the Sorting? It has been some time, you know._

"Has it?" the hat wondered and Tom refrained from rolling his eyes. "Indeed…"

_Judging from your increasingly long periods of silence – which I'm sure you're using wisely,_ Tom thought, knowing the hat could hear him. _I'm assuming you're struggling with the question of which house I'm best suited for – am I right?_

"Clever, Potter, very clever," the hat replied with a chuckle. "I must say Albus Dumbledore was quite possibly the last student to grasp the concept of the Sorting this quickly… Impressive… very impressive indeed…"

_I'll take that as a compliment._

"Very ambitious, resourceful as well… hmm… Difficult, difficult…"

Tom raised an eyebrow. So far, the hat had only mentioned Slytherin traits, which, logically speaking, should result in a very clear decision – _unless…_ the hat saw something else in him, something it didn't _like_.

_In that case, may I suggest Ravenclaw?_

The hat remained silent.

_You are afraid I'll be turning over to the dark side, if you're so strongly opposed to putting me in Slytherin. _Well, it was quite obvious and Tom needed to make sure the hat's 'concerns' were properly dispelled.

"You seem very certain to have figured out the problem…"

_I mean no disrespect, but cleverness, ambition, resourcefulness – those are all traits found in Slytherin house._

"You are indeed quite the curious character, Mr. Potter," the hat finally said. "And I have rarely been wronged in my suspicions… which is why I believe you'll do best in – GRYFFINDOR!"

Tom could feel his whole body tense up and it took him all the self-control in the world to hand the Sorting Hat back to McGonagall and walk over to the cheering crowd of Gryffindors with a smile on his face.

_Gryffindor_… Of all the houses, the blasted old dust-catcher had just thrown Salazar Slytherin's _heir_ into the _lion's den_. Outrageous! Scandalous!

Tom barely noticed the seemingly endless flood of congratulations being thrown in his direction, so mind-numbing was the storm of fury raging on inside. He needed to calm down, lest he catch Dumbledore's attention as well…

The hat would most likely 'inform' the headmaster about the 'Potter boy and his resemblance to a _former Hogwarts student_' – exactly what Tom had been trying to avoid. In this regard, Gryffindor was probably another blessing in disguise – even if it was an insult to Salazar Slytherin's heritage.

But Tom had a mission to complete: he needed allies to rally against Voldemort once the time was right. And so he did the only thing appropriate in a situation like this: he put on his best smile and began the process of getting to know his future housemates.

* * *

**Okay, there was obviously quite a lot going on in this chapter and I had lots of fun writing it - especially the interaction between Tom and Hermione. ;)**

**Having our former Lord Voldemort strictly on good behaviour would be pretty boring and we all remember how bitchy Hermione was in the first book. In my mind, Tom knows exactly what he wants and sometimes you just need to tell people the truth - but you're welcome to voice your own opinions regarding that matter! :)**

**Secondly, I put a lot of thought into the Sorting Ceremony. The hat was originally created by Godric Gryffindor, but ultimately bewitched by all four founders, for sorting the students into the correct houses. To do that, it obviously has to be using Legilimency and I'd like to believe that Tom may be able to hide his true identity from it, but not his entire characteristics. And it's not like he's a totally different person either, so the hat would inevitably discover similarities between Harry and Riddle _and_ see that his intentions aren't all that pure. As a result, the hat'd be reminded of how Riddle turned out and is now trying to avoid a similar outcome.**

**Why I didn't choose Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff and went with Gryffindor instead:**

**I actually thought about putting him in Ravenclaw first. The main reason I ultimately decided against it, was that the hat would probably not fulfill the wish of someone who reminded him of the latest dark wizard and send him to his least preferred house instead. Hufflepuff basically only consists of a bunch of losers in Tom's opinion, but he doesn't hate them. Gryffindor, however, was the house of pretty much _all_ his main enemies (Dumbledore, Harry, the majority of the Order of the Phoenix, etc...) so, naturally, it's the last place Tom wants to end up in.**

**Yeah, like I said, I put a lot of thought into this thing here. *hehe* I'm also expecting some unkind reviews about going for Gryffindor (because that's how it is in the books) but it was a conscious and deliberate decision and _doesn't mean I'll copy the books_.**

**End of my monologue. xD**


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